Here to Stay
by Vampiric Hyde
Summary: Sevvy song fic... yay. Done to the song "Here to Stay" by Korn. As a Death Eater, Severus finds himself faced with new, potentially dangerous thoughts. Could they lead to a complete change in his life?


Here to Stay

A/N: I haven't written anything in a while, so I was pretty damned shocked to get this done... All hail winter break! Anyway, I don't own the Harry Potter series (though I my think I own Sev and Lucius...) and I don't own "Here to Stay" (yay Korn, though). At the moment I can't think of much else to explain on this one, so here goes... 

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_"This time I'm taking it away,"_

A gust of cold air blew in through the open door of the complex as the door flew open. The worn building seemed to attract people with little money who wanted permanent housing, and these residents could usually be seen entering and exiting the building at all times during the day. Even so, it seemed strange that someone should be returning in the middle night, especially during a storm that was the worst anyone in the residence and even the town had seen in years.

The man at the desk looked up as the wind bit at his face, ready to yell at whomever it was who had entered to shut the damn door. By the time he had recovered from the shock of the cold wind, however, the door was closed, and the man who had entered was starting through the cramped lobby. After shooting a wary look at the door, a potential port for cold air, the receptionist looked back at the resident.

The young man who had entered the door was fairly tall, with longish black, greasy-looking hair and a face that was as white as a sheet. Of course it was; he'd been outside in the storm. This was the kid who had most recently taken a room; a couple of weeks ago, it'd been. No one seemed to know much about him, but that wasn't surprising. There were a lot of secrets in apartment-type complexes, even those of wizards. Maybe especially in those of wizards. They had more to hide.

After a moment, the kid paused in his tracks and walked over to the desk. The receptionist refrained from showing any look of concern, as it wasn't his business if the customers seemed to be having trouble. If they didn't say anything, he didn't do anything. Even so, this kid looked pretty bad, as if something was terribly wrong.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"I put my key up here for safe-keeping I'd like to have it back," the young man said in a quiet, somehow dark voice. There was a wavering quality to it which the desk-keeper attributed to the cold, but even so wasn't sure of.

"Your name and room number, sir?"

"Severus Snape; room three," the kid said, darting his eyes around the lobby.

The receptionist nodded and turned around. He opened the cabinet that contained objects - money, keys, and etcetera - that residents asked to have watched over while they were gone. Sure enough, the key was there. He picked it up, turned around, and looked at the man who stood across from him. Again, he felt that something was dreadfully wrong. "Here you are, sir."

"Thank you," the soft voice spoke as its owner took the keys, his hands shaking slightly. With that, the young man started off down the hallway, toward his room.

Something was wrong with that kid, and the receptionist knew it. He had felt it, and he hadn't' liked the feeling one bit. In fact, he had the feeling that it would keep him awake for the night. Ridiculous, but true. Something was wrong there. Not any of his business, but Terribly wrong.

_"I've got a problem, _

_With me getting in the way, _

_Not by my side."_

Severus pushed open the door to his room, stepping inside with a miniscule feeling of relief. He pushed the door shut and locked it with an involuntary movement of his hand. Always lock the door. If he'd learned anything in the past couple of years, that was it... At least, it was a part of it. Always lock the door.

Having finished with the door, he slumped against the wall, grabbing his forehead. The expression on his face was one of extreme pain and near hopelessness. He knew what his face probably looked like, and he didn't care. No one was in the room with him, and it wouldn't have mattered if someone had been there. No one cared if he looked like shit. Why should they?

Sure, why should they? In fact, they'd probably be glad they he looked like shit, if they knew the whole truth about him. If, indeed, they knew anything about him. Hell, if they knew what he was, they'd want him dead. They'd watch him burn.

That was their problem, though, not his. He could watch them burn. He'd watch those who laughed go down, he'd watch them fall. He'd seen it, had been seeing it, for the past few years. 

What did it matter if he was caught? Everyone was going to die eventually, anyway. This thought struck him as hilarious and he laughed, cracking the silence that had settled into the room. The laugh was somewhat frightening in that it sounded hysterical, as if he was losing control. He wasn't entirely surprised to discover this little fact. Not surprised at all.

He didn't understand, couldn't comprehend what was going on. He had felt pressure his whole life, had also thought differently, but now it was worse, now it hurt worse than ever. He had felt it today; even in the presence of the "Master" he had felt it.

Why? He hadn't wanted to be like that. He had tried to remain in complete control, and had almost succeeded But not quite. No, he'd gotten in trouble; he'd been caught as he tripped over his mind. The "Master" had been pissed, that was for sure, and he'd paid for it.

He'd tried to reply exactly as he was supposed to, just as he had learned. Today, something in his mind had interfered, though. Something had gone wrong. He'd said something other than what he should have. He'd screwed up.

_"So I take my face and _

_Bash it into a mirror, _

_I won't have to see the pain." _

Why? Why had he done it?

Lately, he'd been having "bad" thoughts, thoughts that didn't belong where he was. The "Master" wouldn't like these thoughts, not at all. Those were thoughts to die for. Thoughts that deserved worse than what he had experienced today.

Why the confliction? It wasn't right to feel the confliction, especially not in his situation. He wanted to think the right way, wanted to think in one way, so why the hell couldn't he? Why was it so difficult for him to do?

Feeling somewhat unsteady, he stood up and walked over to the mirror that hung on the wall. Cheap thing, really, but it'd been there when he's moved in. There hadn't been any real reason to trash it, and what the hell was he thinking about it for? It was only a mirror.

Only a mirror. Was there something metaphorical there? Probably. He could think about it, but No. He had other things to think about. He couldn't allow himself to continue to drift. It was a luxury that he could not afford, and he knew it.

That, of course, brought on more questions. Why didn't he have the luxury to drift in thought? What prevented them? Why could he not do as he pleased? Hadn't he chosen this path because it'd been right?

Or had he simply though that it'd been the right one? He didn't really know. Anymore, so much shit, so many thoughts that didn't belong He didn't understand.

Raising his head, he stared into the mirror, gazing into his own eyes, looking over his own visage. It was pathetic. Same old Severus, same pathetic Severus. His path hadn't led him anywhere better; he was the same as always. Maybe even worse off than before. Same pained eyes, the only point of his face that he had great difficulty controlling, the only part that could betray him without his consent.

Why so much shit? Why so many question? Why? The questions clashed in his mind, pounding into him, ripping him apart. What? Why?

He couldn't stand it anymore, he simply couldn't. Without realizing what he was doing, Severus suddenly slammed his head forward. He heard the glass of the mirror shatter and fall to the ground and felt several pieces slice at his face before he realized that he'd just broken the mirror.

Taking a step back, he looked at the frame and the few remains of glass at the edges. Now the cheap mirror was gone. Maybe now he wouldn't have to see his own conflict. Maybe the mirror had held all of the hurt. Maybe it would be all right now.

_"This state is elevating, _

_As the hurt turns into hating,_

_Anticipating all the fucked up feelings again."_

He was still staring at the nearly empty frame when he realized that blood had begun to trickle into his left eye, causing half of his vision to take on a crimson film. He closed his eye before the blood could creep to the eye and cause it to sting. For another moment he stood where he was, only able to think about washing the cuts, not able to move.

When he tried to open his eye again, he realized that the lid had been sealed shut by the blood. Sighing, he made himself move toward the small washroom- one of his three rooms. As he leaned over the sink, he ran his hand lightly over his forehead. Sure enough, several pieces of glass had managed to lodge themselves into his skin. These he pulled gingerly out of his forehead and set on the edge of the sink.

After turning the faucet on and staring at the water for a few moments, he closed his eyes and splashed water onto his face. Immediately, he felt the sting of his open wounds as they were barricaded by icy cold water, and his eyes flew open in time to see a mixture of blood and water swirl into the sink's drain.

He rubbed his hand over his forehead and once more felt a burst of red-hot pain. His eyes bulged out of his head, and for a moment, all he could see in his mind was pain. The cuts hadn't hurt before the water; now they were torturing him.

He deserved it, though. At least, he supposed that he did. It didn't matter. All he could do was let it hurt. Physical pain was better than emotional pain. He knew that the conflict would be back, but for the moment he could relish the fact that all he felt was the sting of the wound. The sting of the mind would re-appear later.

_"My hurt inside is fading, _

_This shit's gone way too far. _

_All this time I've been waiting, _

_Oh I cannot grieve anymore."_

Pain. Pain was a very constant part of his life; or, at least, it had become a constant, even more so than ever before. Day and night it followed him, letting off for only short intervals of time. Physical, emotional It was all pain. Physical was better. Easier to deal with.

At one time, he'd had a friend who had thrived on pain-still thrived on pain, as far as he could tell. Maybe, even, he still was his friend; it was difficult to tell. Things were different then they had been at school. Oh-so-incredibly different. There had been pain at school, but that was nothing compared to this.

Sometimes, Severus thought that the pain needed to stop. More and more lately he'd wondered how long he could take it, how much he could bear. At times he'd think ahead, only to see pain, pain, and more pain, perhaps with a darkness mixed in. Everything was bleak, everything was sordid. Would his life be like that until the end?

More and more he found himself bucking against this idea. More and more he found himself wishing that there was a way out. So much pain He didn't want all of it. Maybe some pain, but not all pain. Not this much.

He'd been hoping to find a way out, and as of yet had been unable to. For a long while, he'd been hoping that an opportunity for salvation would present itself. So far, any opportunity had been closed to him.

How was he supposed to find one? It wasn't as if there was some magic door waiting for him, after all. Maybe there was no way out. Maybe he'd fallen into a trap, one that he'd never be able to climb out of. Perhaps there was no use in wishing any more. Perhaps there was no way to end the pain.

_"For what's inside awaking_

_I'm not, I'm not a whore. _

_You've taken everything and _

_Oh, I cannot give anymore."_

This he could believe and yet, somewhere, would never be able to believe. Somehow, he felt that he could do something. Even if it only meant killing himself, there was something. Not that he felt that killing himself would make it any better. In order to make some of the pain leave, he'd have to do something, something different, something good.

What was all of this? He'd been a Death Eater for some time now and had never questioned his decision seriously until now. Now Now he felt that he had made the wrong choice, and now he was thinking of doing something else.

Skipping from this to that, one thing to the other. What was wrong with him? He didn't know, couldn't understand. All he knew was that he didn't ever seem to be able to stay in one place. Was that his problem? Was there some place, some state that he could reach and find a sort of peace?

Was it so wrong to keep from being tied down? He hadn't felt any reason, now that he thought about it Or, rather, if he had it had been for a short while only. There was nothing there, nothing that felt right. Was he wrong to join with others and then go elsewhere?

Oh Christ, join with others and go elsewhere? What was he thinking? Gripping his arm, rubbing the mark that lay-constantly burning-on the skin, he realized that he didn't know. In all honesty, he didn't know.

Voldemort, the one that was sometimes called "The Master", didn't know, or there would have been trouble. In fact, Severus figured that he'd be dead already. The mere hint of what he was thinking, what was going through his mind, would have sent Voldemort into conniptions, would've driven him to murder Severus. Maybe that would've been better, though. Severus wondered.

When he'd joined with the Death Eaters, Severus had thought that he'd found his path. It had seemed, at the time, to be his destiny. In a way, he'd felt lost; he'd ended up attributing that to some inane breed of destiny. That and, in all honesty, he had been angry. He had wanted his own sort of vengeance, and he had seen this as a way to reach it.

Now he did regret it. His life was enveloped in a constant cloud of darkness-anger, hatred, death-and his life was now in Voldemort's hands. At times he felt as if he were losing his mind; now he felt this more strongly than ever.

If this continued onward, he would be nothing but an automaton. Nearly every ounce of his body yearned to leave this behind, and everywhere within he felt that he could not allow himself to become a mindless servant. If this went on longer, that would be the fate to which he would be led.

_"My mind's done with this _

_So, hey, I've got a question _

_Can I throw it all away? _

_Take back what's mine."_

Fine. Now he understood what the thoughts that had been running in the back of his mind those last few months had been leading up to. He hadn't been able to comprehend their meaning, had been unable to even begin to sort them out. Perhaps that had been indecision. Perhaps he simply hadn't wanted to know. Now he knew, like it or not.

All of that rushing torment had been realization and a recognition of the true nature of the situation he had dug himself into. As he had gone through the days, his mind had become more and more aware of the nature of the situation, and had clamored more loudly with each and every passing day. His mind had seen what this truly was, but he had repressed it. Now, however, it was engulfing his entire being and bringing him to the truth.

He could not continue to be a Death Eater, could no longer take the pain of what he didn't want. This was wrong, he had taken a wrong turn, and now he could acknowledge it. Everything that he was has become darkness. Everything he stood for had become fatality.

Anger, rage, hate, pain, fear He had always felt these, and now they seemed to be what he lived on. When he had been younger, they had been constant, but not prevalent. He had been able to live for other things at times. Now he was controlled by these feelings. They had become his fuel, and he used much of them, day in, day out, over and over.

Only a few minutes ago, he would've cringed at these thoughts. Now, however, he could only stare at them blankly, seeing them for what they were, seeing them for the truth. Realization was the key, and he had used it to unlock the door to that place in his mind which had remained locked to him. In a way, he could see the light But that wasn't a very good term.

Was it possible to make this leave? Was it possible to go back to the way things were? He had never been an incredibly happy person, and had never been entirely respected, but that was better than what he had fallen into. He wanted what he had been; yearned for the time when he could make his own decision, live by his own rules. 

Could he drop this? Could he leave it and become something more like he had been? Dark, perhaps, but not a murder. Something else entirely.

_"So I take my time _

_Guiding the blade down the line_

_Each cut, closer to the vein." _

There was a quick way to do it. Without much thought, Severus grabbed a jagged piece of the mirror from the edge of the sink and held it up in the light. He watched, transfixed, as the light flooded the piece of glass and then bounced off of it. So much light for such a small object Light. He didn't love light. That was the problem, perhaps. He still didn't love light. Now he simply knew that he didn't like to live on anger.

Glass. Jagged. Deadly. Almost like

Raising the hand with the glass, he lashed out at his arm. There was a sharp flash of pain, which was good in a way, and then he watched as crimson blood welled up through the cut. Blood So simple, yet so complex. It was always there, and if taken away, death would ensue.

Was it possible that death was the best way? As the blood began to trickle over his arm, dripping to the sink, Severus turned the question over in his mind. Was it? If he died, he could no longer kill anyone. His own death would be a blessing for others, perhaps, whether they knew it or not. If he killed himself

With a sharp crash, the piece of glass fell to the floor and shattered. "No," he muttered, his eyes wide and his hand shaking. "No"

Not suicide. He couldn't kill himself. There were other ways, other things that could be done. He had once known someone who had killed herself, and Remembering that made it worse. He had made a promise to himself, though, and he intended to keep it. He had said that he would never kill himself, and he intended to remain true to that statement.

No. If he were going to die, it would be by someone else's hands. Perhaps Voldemort's; he didn't know for sure. Maybe he'd live. How-he didn't know how. That didn't matter, really. All that mattered was finding some way out, finding some other path.

_"This state is elevating, as the hurt turns into hating _

_Anticipating all the fucked up feelings again."_

A burst of fresh pain from his arm interrupted his stream of thoughts, causing his mind to blank out momentarily. It wasn't necessary to pull up the sleeve and check the mark; he knew that it was time to go back.

He didn't want to go back. After the earlier occurrence, where he'd been punished, he didn't want to see Voldemort, nor any of the others. He didn't have a choice, though. Never had a choice.

That was the truth if there ever was any such thing. Voldemort had taken all choice away. In his world, the world of "The Master", there was no real gray. Everything went as Voldemort commanded; everyone did as he said. Voldemort wanted his opposition to fall, wanted to murder everyone. At the same time, he wanted his own followers to obey his each and every command without hesitation. Why? How could he, Severus, have brought this onto himself?

He had to go. As much as he didn't want to, he had to. He could only hope that he would have more control than he had earlier. Perhaps it would be so. Now that he could understand his thoughts, perhaps he could remain calm.

_"The hurt inside is fading _

_This shit's gone way too far _

_All this time I've been waiting _

_Oh, I cannot grieve anymore _

_For what's inside awaking _

_I'm not, I'm not a whore _

_You've taken everything and _

_Oh I cannot give anymore."_

An instant after he had pushed up his hood and placed the familiar mask on his face, Severus had Disapparated. He didn't know for a fact where he'd end up, but he had a good idea. Usually, the Death Eaters met in an old cemetery that had been set up in the middle of a forest. It was an appropriate setting; probably the reason it had been chosen in the first place. In a way it seemed too obvious, too cliché, but Voldemort didn't seem to mind. No one had found it yet, and that was what mattered.

The moment he had Apparated, Severus saw that-yes indeed-the meeting had been called at the cemetery. He was the last to arrive, which didn't surprise him; he should have been there in an instant, but had instead paused to think. Not that it mattered at the moment. He had more important issues to attend to.

A chill wind whistled past intermittently, its icy fingers reaching out to graze the side of Severus's face. Above, the sky-so deep a blue it was nearly black-seemed to swallow up the rest of the world, leaving the area in which he now stood to remain on its own. The trees along the edge of the cemetery's clearing seemed to reach into it, stretching their branches in an attempt to grasp those who stood inside. The cemetery itself was archaic, filled with cracked headstones and faded inscriptions. At one it may have been a place for the mourning of death; now it was merely a place for plans of more death.

Around him, his fellow Death Eaters stood in a ring, standing around a figure in the middle. The figures hidden beneath the cloaks and masks were nearly indistinguishable from each other; aside from a few who could be identified from body frame, they looked alike. Covering every individual from head to toe, the cloaks and masks provided anonymity.

These were the people he had worked with lately, the ones whom he was bound to murder with. Did they feel as he did? Did they want out as he did? He didn't know for sure, but somehow felt that the majority of them did not. He had seen their faces, had seen the sadism. Perhaps that had been an illusion, but it had appeared to be real enough. Whether it was or not, he couldn't trust any of them enough to confide in him Maybe that was better, though. So many maybes.

The figure in the center suddenly turned around and stood stone still, staring at them. Severus withheld a shudder of revulsion at the mere sight, managing to get a grip on himself. Thankfully, he found that he could indeed control his actions. So, it seemed, his condition had improved. Making up his mind had helped. Now he could only hope that Voldemort wouldn't see anything in it.

Speaking of Voldemort Severus saw that "The Master" had begun to look around the ring, surveying his followers. His eyes moved swiftly, efficiently, with a ruthless gleam. Always that gleam. In the time that Severus had been a Death Eater, he had seen the many times and had grown to despise it.

Suddenly, Voldemort took a step forward, moving his cloaked body with cat-like agility. "Welcome," he spoke as he looked over the ring once more. His voice almost seemed to be a hiss, as if he had been fused with a snake at some point. It was ridiculous, and yet it was frightening. The snake, the man, the serpent of a man who had risen to power

_"I'm here to stay _

_Bring it down! _

_Gonna bring it down _

_Gonna bring it down _

_Gonna break it down_

_Gonna break it down_

_Gonna break it!"_

"I see that you have all made it As you should have," he turned his head deliberately as he said this, then brought it back and once more stood without moving. "Your next task shall be given to you; I do believe you will enjoy this one."

"Liar," Severus thought bitterly. A momentary feeling of shock accompanied this thought, but it faded quickly. His mindset had changed. He could now think freely, and it was wonderful as well as awful. At least he could be thankful that Voldemort couldn't read his mind. If that were so, he would be struck dead.

"A band of wizards has locked a group of hateful Mudbloods into safety Or what they believe to be safety. These must be destroyed. Not only will it make our point clear, but it will also allow us to be rid of a few more of those filthy impostors." As Voldemort spoke, he moved his hand lazily, tracing motions of death with idle fingers.

There was much nodding and slight mumbling to follow this news. For his part, Severus remained silent, contemplating. This was what Voldemort wanted of them. He wanted them to kill those who had been sent to safety, primarily to make a point. He wanted to have his followers murder a group of wizards because of their parents, because of something that they couldn't help. How had he been able to do it before? How could he do it now?

Perhaps he could take a spot in this "task" that would require no murder. He could find another way, something that wouldn't work toward the deaths. Would Voldemort allow for another task? If Severus could come up with an excuse along the lines of how there were enough Death Eaters for the raid and how he needed to work on a different task, there was a possibility of getting out of it.

But what aside from that? How could he move against this? How could he fight the darkness?

There had to be a way. Work against the Death Eaters? Severus's mind nearly froze at the thought. Awful, horrible, bad. And yet Maybe it would work. If he could find a way, then maybe he could fight them.

They would kill him. He accepted this fact, knowing that it didn't matter. There was always the idea that he would die if he stayed, anyway, and there were other lives than his at stake. Not only that but He didn't want to be a part of it. If he stayed, it would only destroy him.

Now he had found a purpose. He would go against this, work to undermine it. No more of this, no more. It was madness, and he had no intention of being driven by madness any longer. That was over. He had found a purpose, and he would stay with this one.

_"This state is elevating, _

_As the hurt turns into hating _

_Anticipating all the fucked up feelings again _

_My hurt inside is fading _

_This shit's gone way too far _

_All this time I've been waiting _

_Oh, I cannot grieve anymore _

_For what's inside awaking _

_I'm not, I'm not a whore _

_You've taken everything and _

_Oh I cannot give anymore."_

The hissing voice of Voldemort broke his thoughts. "Something on your mind that you should like to share with us, Severus?"

What to say, what to say? He couldn't freeze, because he'd already done that once, and doing it twice would be equal to suicide. What to say? When he spoke, it was without knowing what he was going to say. "Not at all, Master. Please forgive me; I am tired."

"We are all tired, Severus," Voldemort's eyes glinted, and for a wild moment Severus thought that he would be murdered on the spot. Voldemort knew. He had to know; he knew everything.

Voldemort's next move, however, was not to murder but to speak again. "We are all tired, but they are even more so. We will derive strength from them," he stepped backward, addressing the entire group, "and we will use it against them. Their defeat will lead to more triumph for our side. We cannot be defeated! Even now they cower at the mere thought of us, the mere mention of what we are-of my name."

Severus would've breathed a sigh of relief had he thought that it was safe. Instead, he stood still, observing. He could feel anger, could feel hate, but this was his own. Not good, but his own, and that made all the difference in the world. He could be driven by his own means, he could think for himself. Somehow, his mind had released itself from Voldemort's grip. For this he was eternally thankful. If he knew how to be properly thankful, that was.

His eyes were fixed on Voldemort, carefully regarding the hateful creature. He had brought on so much more pain than had been necessary, had intensified the agony. Previous to that day, Severus had felt the pain alone. Now, however, he could feel the hate toward Voldemort showing through, flashing red against black.

If the hate was "bad", Severus didn't care. He had disowned the practices of the Death Eaters, and to him that was what mattered. He couldn't change himself completely, and therefore would continue to hate, maybe forever. This was different, though. This hate was justified by the anger that had been caused, that pain that had been wrought.

Hate. It was a tool of Voldemort, but perhaps it could be used against him if wielded by the right individual. Severus felt that he could try, that he could resist. Maybe the hate would help, maybe it would drive him over. He could try though, damnit, he could try.

_"Give anymore"_

This was his decision, this was his own choice. He had turned his path, had strayed from that which he had been following. There was no saying whether or not it was the correct path, but he felt that it was right. Somewhere, he felt that It was the best choice he'd ever managed to make.

Now he had a cause worth dying for. He could find a way to help, could find some way to work against Voldemort without his knowing, while working with others to stop him. While Severus didn't much like working with others, he knew that it was necessary. At some point, he would have to cooperate, and he felt that he could do it As long as this was against Voldemort.

There would be no more given to Voldemort, no more pain channeled into his work. From now on, Severus would resist as well as he could. From here on out, he would beat his own path, discovering a new route. Something had been opened up to him when his mind had opened; something had allowed him to think.

No more pain in the name of the "Dark Lord". No more screams of victims who had done nothing. This was the choice of Severus, the decision to turn to something else. Even among the Death Eaters, even in Voldemort's presence, he could feel it.

Maybe there was hope for less pain; maybe there was something to be found. If there was, he would find it. As the cold of the night air seeped into his skin and the equally cold voice of Voldemort rang in his ears, Severus knew that he could make a different choice, and that he could stay with this path.


End file.
